


Cindermella

by Ishti



Category: Aveyond
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 01:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15474861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishti/pseuds/Ishti
Summary: Cinderella! But with Mel!





	1. First Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumesvertes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumesvertes/gifts).



> Moonie had a dream that I wrote this fic... so I wrote this fic! Happy birthday, Moonie!

Stella was Mel’s fairy godgirlfriend. The technical term, of course, was “fairy godfriend”, but they got their smooch on together when they were twelve and they’d been girlfriends ever since.

Mel was very grateful that she’d been assigned a fairy godfriend when she was born. In theory, that signified Mel was to do some kind of benevolent divine bidding, but mostly Mel just stole stuff. Rather, she stole stuff during the blissful days before her three unsolicited roommates showed up with her late father’s will. Now, Mel spent her days spraying malodorous chemicals in the bathrooms and spraying different malodorous chemicals in her stepsiblings’ stupid green hair. None of that felt particularly divine to her.

At least Stella was around to make Mel feel better. Too bad it wasn’t the bidding of the divines for Stella to sweep the kitchen every once in a while.

Nor Lydia, Lars, or that harpy Mel was supposed to call “Mother”. Ha--Ingrid knew by now  _ that _ would never happen, just as Mel had known for a long time that Ingrid would never lift a fingernail to maintain her own home. For a whole year, Mel took care of the house entirely by herself… and it wasn’t a small house. Ol’ Johnny-cake spent a decade saving enough money to build the house of young Mel’s dreams. That’s why the central library was so enormous, and why there were so many “secret” tunnels, and why there was a room with nothing but swords and another room with nothing but maps and one really big snake. Mel loved feeding the snake, but she hated dusting the maps.

Mel worked dawn to dusk each day, sometimes a little later if she had to. Stella was the only reason Mel hadn’t snapped and run someone through with John’s favorite estoc. Stella, who was mostly incorporeal and couldn’t touch anything but Mel, was also selectively invisible and opted to hang out most days when she didn’t have other divine business. Today was one such day.

“There’s a huge royal festival this weekend,” commented Stella as Mel dried a plate beside the kitchen sink.

“Yeah, I know.” Mel rolled her eyes. “The green beans won’t shut up about it.”

“Well… maybe… you should go.” Stella grinned her I-am-definitely-up-to-something grin.

_ “Well… maybe… _ you should just tell me  _ why; _ how about that? You know I hate all that stuffy noble crap. There’s a fairy job, right?”

“Can’t get anything past you!”

“You might if you actually tried.”

“There’s a job.” Stella met Mel’s eyes, serious for a moment. “I can’t really tell you more about it. And… I know you’ll have fun, okay? Don’t glare at me! The fun is part of the job.”

“Psh.” Mel stood on her toes to stow a cast-iron pan in a high cabinet. “You can put a twist on anything, I gotta give you that.”

“Please go to the ball?”

“A ball, huh…. Will you dress up in one of those gowns with the--you know, the--um--” Mel gestured around her chest, still holding a wet paring knife in one hand.

“Sweetheart neckline.”

“Yeah, you look great in those.”

“First of all, no one else will see me.”

“That’s kinda hot.”

“Second of all, it’s not really, um,  _ in style _ in fairyland right now, so I probably won’t find one--”

“C’mon, Stels; I’m joking. I’ll help you with your job.” Mel licked a spoon and hung it from Stella’s nose.

Stella blinked. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“It’ll probably fall off when it dries.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

 

 

 

Ingrid and her children returned from tea that afternoon in quite haughty moods. Lars liked to look down his nose when he addressed Mel, whereas Lydia liked to stick her nose up and glance at Mel from the side of her eye. Mel was fond of staring them both down head-on to see whether she could get them to crack.

“I’m going to the ball tonight,” she said as she took Ingrid’s coat.

The old bat snorted. “In a gown made of unwashed bedskirts?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going.”

“You will  _ not _ represent our family in a shabby costume. Perhaps if you ever took any care of your clothing….”

“I’ll borrow from Lydia.”

Lydia gasped as if she’d witnessed a stabbing. “You will  _ not!” _

Lars scoffed. “How long do you think it would take Cinders to ruin a nice dress? My bet’s on ten minutes.”

“Well, it won’t be  _ my  _ dress.”

“Maybe five if there’s sateen involved.”

“As if I’d have any  _ sateen _ dresses! That’s so  _ tawdry!” _

Mel crossed her arms and turned her gaze back to Ingrid. Ingrid glared back.

“Your father let you get away with far too much.”

Mel tried not to grind her teeth. She felt Stella’s unseen hand on her back.

_ My father let you con him way too much. _

“If you  _ insist _ on coming to the ball with us, fine. Procure a dress and make yourself presentable enough for our carriage. Wipe the damn cinders from your face, for the gods’ sake!”

Mel rubbed a finger across her cheek and smudged the fine ash she neither knew nor cared was there. “All right.”

“Ugh… this damned house and all its fireplaces.” Ingrid shook her head in disgust. “Clean them tonight, girl, or you’re going  _ nowhere.” _

_ All of the fireplaces? That’s…. _

“You had better start now, don’t you think?” jeered Lars. Lydia tittered behind him.

Mel rubbed her eyes, smudging the grey even further across her skin. “Whatever. I’ll be done before dinner.”

“You’d better be done in time to help me into my dress!” said Lydia with a simper. “That’s what  _ sisters _ do.”

“That’s what Cinders do,” sniffed Lars.

 

 

 

Mel was done before dinner. She laced Lydia into her dress, which she secretly thought was a rather nice activity if she willfully forgot that the soft, smooth skin and delicate bone structure belonged to the snottiest brat in Aia. She even dug up the one fancy-ish dress she wore with father to Ingrid’s last birthday party prior to their accursed marriage. It barely fit, but that was fine; that was what pins were for.

And, of course, she was laughed away from the carriage under the pretenses of the drab dress, the loose hair, the plain make-up, the ridiculous bow, and whatever else Lars and Lydia could think of before Ingrid waved her off and told her she did a poor job with the fireplaces anyway.

She stormed back inside, snatching her flats from her feet as she went and tossing them onto the doormat. The dress was off within seconds, Mel’s work-thickened skin slashed through with thin red lines where the pins poked through the fabric. Behind her, Stella gently took Mel by the waist. Mel’s bare feet halted on the cool floor, finding it steady, and she let herself breathe slowly again. Stella stroked her hands down Mel’s shoulders to the back of her slip. The cuts closed up slowly, leaving no seams.

Mel sighed. 

“They’re  _ awful.” _

“They’re awful,” murmured Stella, hugging Mel from behind and kissing the back of her head. “That was a horrible thing for them to do to you.”

Mel turned to stare quizzically at her fairy godgirlfriend. “Well--I’m not doing this for me! This is about you! Aren’t you mad for  _ you?” _

Stella smiled and wiggled her hand. “Not really. That’s the nice thing about the divine--”

“--they find a way.” Mel let herself smirk. She’d heard that dozens of times. “What’s your plan?”

“Magic!”

“Of course.”

“I can… um… rent you an outfit. And a carriage. And some other things.”

“Rent? You mean summon. From the fairy realms.”

“Yes!”

Mel groaned. “Look… no offense, babe, but you’re… I mean… fairies are so….”

“Tacky?”

“Hey.” Mel raised her hands in surrender. “You said it.”

Stella clasped Mel’s hands and giggled. “You’re not wrong. I know your tastes, Mels. I’m confident I can get you the least offensive dress possible, even from fairyland. What color?”

“Ugh, I don’t know. Anything but red.”

“Hmm…” Stella bit her lip. “Red is in this season. I’ll try, though.”

“I know you will. Just remember not to get wing-holes. Please.”

 

 

 

It didn’t have wing-holes.

In the humongous sparkly bulbous clown nose of a dress, Mel barely fit into the comparatively delicate carriage Stella apologetically summoned from the fairyland depot. She glared a lot. Stella was absolutely enjoying this just a  _ tiny _ bit.

With a little twirl of Stella’s wand, the orange bow on Mel’s head became a golden tiara, and she stepped back with satisfaction. “Okay; you know how it works. This stuff is due back at midnight exactly--”

“--so unless I want to walk home barefoot and naked, I’d better be back home when it  _ poof _ s.”

“That’s right! Oh, this is going to be  _ so _ good for you!”

“How, exactly?”

“I have no idea. Have fun! I love you!”

Stella snapped her fingers, and the horses set off into the sunset.

The journey from John’s manor to the palace wasn’t that long, although the royal forest’s uncannily tall trees made it seem much further. Mel sighed from her stomach when the spires broke between the high branches. She leaned her chin against her hand with her elbow sticking out the windowframe. This was not where she would elect to spend a Friday night, unless she was here to steal something.

Some obnoxiously tall blond knight guy helped Mel out of her carriage. She had a hard time looking at his face, or at anyone’s, as she moseyed into the palace. Stella told her she’d know what she was looking for when she saw it, but mostly what she saw as she sidestepped around the edge of the ballroom was a series of extravagantly-clad feet, and none of them looked especially divine or otherwise prophetic. She tugged at her gloves.

Oh, there was the refreshments table. Now  _ that _ was what she’d been looking for.

Mel could eat her weight in puff pastry. There was the stuff with mushrooms in it, the stuff with cheese in it, the stuff with spinach, the stuff with jam, the stuff with the other kind of cheese. Her chin felt properly buttered by the time she snatched up a flute of champagne to wash it all down. Oh, and then there was  _ meat…. _ Mel reached to grab a skewer of what appeared to be a fine cut of steak before the tray rudely slid from under her hand.

“Uh?” she grunted in surprise, turning to see a round-faced guy dressed roughly like a butler holding the steak platter. They stared at each other, each wide-eyed and sheepish.

“Sorry,” the server guy said finally, “they’re, uh, cold.”

“No they’re not,” Mel replied.

They stared some more.

“Are you here with the Harpsbren party?” he asked.

“Uh, yes,” Mel lied.

“No you’re not.”

_ “Ugh!” _ Mel clenched her fists and her teeth. “So why are you taking the stupid steak?!”

“That wasn’t very ladylike,” he responded quietly. “If you want to fit in, you’re going to have to try a little harder.”

“Some waitstaff you are.”  _ When  _ I  _ talk back like that-- _

“And I’m guessing you could ‘show me a thing or two about that’?” The guy shifted the tray to his other hand, nabbing a steak skewer and popping it into his mouth at an angle where no one else could see.

“I  _ could,” _ she snapped before she thought too hard about it. Then, she thought, and she said, “if you take me wherever you’re taking that steak.”

“Um….” Something tired shifted through the boy’s eyes. “I don’t see why not. There’s a spot under the staircase. I promise I won’t stab you or anything.”

Mel snorted. “Your knife wouldn’t even taste the air.”

They skirted together around the edge of the room with the perfectly warm steak skewers until they reached the staircase along the furthest edge of the ballroom. There was a bit of an alcove underneath, not enough to truly conceal two people but enough to keep them out of the way. The boy leaned against the wall and offered out the platter with a conciliatory smile.

Eyes still narrowed in suspicion, Mel plucked another skewer from the platter. “So… stealing food from your employer in the middle of a big-ticket event.”

The boy winced. “Yeah?”

“Hats off.”

“Oh. Wait--really?”

“Yeah. And using a guest to make it look like you were taking a complaint? Top notch.”

“Well… I actually hadn’t thought of that.”

“Isn’t learning fun?”

To Mel’s surprise, the boy chuckled. It was almost infuriating how relaxed he seemed while she spat her fire. She was a snake. People were supposed to back away.

She sighed. “Whatever. I guess this ball doesn’t suck anymore now that I have all this steak.”

“You have  _ half _ this steak,” he corrected.

“Fine. So… are you gonna ask me why I’m here, or whatever? Or who I am?”

He shrugged and turned his face away. “No.”

“That’s fair.”

They each ate a skewer in silence. A girl with the most enormous puffy shoulders on her gown waltzed by the staircase, obscuring her dance partner’s face from view--until Mel caught sight of his bright green hair and stifled a snort in her hand.

Her steak buddy smiled. “You know that guy?”

“Yeah,” she snickered as quietly as she could. “Lars. I’m shocked he found anything big enough to hide his enormous hot air balloon head.”

“Oh, Ylitta’s just wearing those shoulderpads to distract from the fact she doesn’t have a spine.”

Mel doubled over with quiet laughter, and they wheezed together under the stairs as unobtrusively as they could until Lars and Ylitta were out of sight. Steak buddy rubbed tears from his eyes.

“Gods, I can’t  _ stand _ these people,” he whispered.

“I know; me, neither!”

“I’ve spent a whole  _ lifetime _ watching ‘em act like total clowns. Ugh, the stories I could tell you….”

Mel grinned and leaned back. “Hey, I’ve got all night.”

 

 

 

Eight purloined glasses of champagne littered the floor behind a massive pillar near the balcony, to which the boy and Mel had relocated once the steak platter was empty. That was about three hours ago. Mel and her keen eyes picked out this hideout and guessed they would be more concealed here than in the alcove beneath the stairs. Now, she was suffering from a spot of double vision, leaning against the pillar for support but occasionally slipping one way or the other.

“...and then  _ Lars _ said… oh my gods, what was it--oh yeah--’I hereby name you Peta!’”

Mel and the boy burst into laughter, not attempting to conceal their cackles at all. “I’ve--I’ve heard him speak a lot, and--and, yeah, he does sound exactly like that!” gasped the boy between peals of mirth.

“Poor Peta!” Mel mocked in the same exaggerated tone. The boy covered his mouth with his hands and scrunched his eyes. Mel leaned her head against his, her tiara getting carelessly caught in a few strands of his brown hair, and laughed with him.

“Oh my  _ gods,” _ he wheezed eventually. “And… his sister… you’ve met his sister, right? Lydia?”

“Oh,  _ her,” _ groaned Mel, rolling her eyes. “I’ve met her.”

“She’s just such a… a….” The boy flapped his hands and glanced at the ceiling. “A  _ mean girl! _ She’s always got to have the most attention--oh, man, that one time someone wore a dress that was the same color as hers--”

“Ugh, she came back home with that dress slung over her shoulder like a prisoner of war.”

“--and last time she saw me, she and her stilettos sent this other girl to the  _ infirmary _ so she could make a beeline for the first dance--wait, what?”

“Hey--hey,  _ what?!” _

Mel and the boy stood back from one another as if lightning struck between them. Someone’s shoe collided with a champagne flute, and it crashed into the glass hoard like a bowling ball into pins, toppling all eight to the floor before they rolled to the balcony, smashed into the balustrade and shattered to the gardens below.

_ That _ caught some attention.

A tall butler fellow with a truly obnoxious mustache hustled to nose around behind the pillar. He gasped and reeled back, gloved hand against his chest, when he saw the boy.

“Prince Edward! We have been covertly searching all night!”

_ Prince Edward?! _ Mel held back a screech behind her teeth.

“Um, yeah, so… about that,” stammered Edward.

“A  _ legion _ of ladies have emptied their dance cards in anticipation of your presence tonight!” chattered the butler, waving his hands dramatically. “You  _ must _ come about and change your clothes at once!”

“In front of a legion of ladies?”

“This night has been a disaster--oh, what will your mother say?”

“Ugh….”

“Well,  _ someone _ will say that,” growled Mel through her clenched jaw. Edward’s gaze snapped to her, and she could tell he tried to choke out an apologetic explanation as she turned her head away, but she refused to hear it. As best she could in her tipsy haze and thickly layered dress, she stormed away from the prince, through the throngs of twirling nobles, and out the gilded doors of the royal palace long before midnight.

 

 

 

“That was a bust.”

“Put your pajamas on, darling. You did an amazing job. I promise, promise, promise it wasn’t a bust.”

“How do you even know that? How am  _ I _ supposed to know that?”

“You’re finding a way out. And you’re not the only one who needs a way out.”

 

 

 

Mel was still curled up in her pajamas in front of her bedroom fire at one thirty in the morning. She felt betrayed, she felt confused, and she felt bitter. Most of all, she felt like she had to hold herself back because she  _ really _ didn’t want to be mad at Stella, and she  _ hated _ that feeling. She felt saturnine.

“Cinders.”

Mel didn’t dignify Lydia’s salutation with so much as a glance in her direction. She watched the sparks flicker and vanish.

_ “Mel.” _

She sighed and turned her head to look at Lydia, her puffy green hair down and her white slip exposing her fragile figure. Lydia’s arms were crossed, obscuring her chest. She didn’t meet Mel’s eyes.

Mel sucked her teeth. “What?”

“You’re gay.”

“Um.” Mel sat back for a second, her eyebrows high, all thoughts of frustration or insecurity banished. “Excuse me?”

“You. Are gay. Right?”

“I… don’t come into  _ your _ room and ask you crap like this.”  _ Well, she’s right, but…. _

“Whatever. So, you’re gay.” Lydia perched distastefully on a bare wooden chair. “As a noble, um…  _ lady… _ how, exactly, do you avoid, uh… male suitors?”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “I don’t get out much.”

“Right, right.” Lydia looked past her, distracted, a little agitated. “But that won’t work for  _ me, _ obviously. I need more. You need to help me.”

Mel laughed aloud, standing to look down at Lydia. “Are you kidding me? You want my help?”

Lydia glared up at her. “Well--obviously I--I’m offering a trade.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m perfectly aware of how much you hate it here, and how much you hate Mother and Lars. You’re not the only one.”

That gave Mel pause. “Wait… seriously?”

“The only difference between you and me is that I play the game.” Lydia’s gaze hardened, but she wasn’t glaring at Mel anymore. There was something a little deeper, a little more clever and a little sadder than Mel ever expected to see in her step-housemate.

“All right,” said Mel slowly. “What are you offering?”

“We both need a way out.” Eyes shut, Lydia smirked with confidence. “I think we can be each other’s way out.”


	2. Second Night

Biting her lower lip, Stella fluffed the ruffle at Mel’s collar, while Mel struggled to determine whether she had enough hair to pull back into a low ponytail with a little orange tie. The rapier at her hip was the least odd thing about her evening or her outfit.

“Stels… you sure you’re okay with me going to this ball with another woman?”

“I told you, I’m okay with it.” Stella chuckled low. “Honestly, this sort of thing is pretty normal for fairies--”

“I told you, it’s not a real date!” Mel cut in.

“All right. Now, do you remember when to button the jacket?”

Stella pulled back, and Mel glanced down at her fancy men’s formalwear, this time in a flattering shade of indigo. “Um… never?”

“Right! Oh, you’re going to be such a good dandy.”

“Ugh. Why do you tease me like that?”

“Because. Okay, time for step two.”

“Pretending to pick Lydia up from ‘Ingrid’s house’.” Mel rolled her eyes. “Can’t I skip this step?”

“Nope!”

Mel and Stella meandered a little ways into the forest down a road almost no one ever used. They held hands, their arms swinging with every step. A butterfly found Stella even though she was invisible and hovered around her while she walked.

“This is far enough,” she said. “I got you a much sleeker carriage this time. In Faeopolis, they’re calling these ‘muscle carriages’. I thought it would be perfect for your character!”

With a flick of Stella’s wrist, the carriage appeared on the road before them, fully equipped with two sinewy black stallions. Mel didn’t know much about carriages, but she thought maybe it was more aerodynamic.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You’re welcome! Now you’d better hurry and pick up your date.”

“Please stop saying that.”

 

 

 

“Melvin” cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back as he waited for his date to arrive at the door. Ingrid stared just over the top of his head, disinterested. That was good. This next part would require Ingrid to be just as inattentive as Lydia claimed… and it would involve some sleight of hand.

There she was. Melvin swallowed. By some sheer courtly arcanity, Lydia wore a dress the same shade of indigo as Melvin’s coat. All eyes would be on them at the ball. _Great._

“Melvin.”

Lydia batted her eyelashes as Melvin took her hand and tried not to roll his eyes. With the dexterity of a born thief, he slipped the ring in his palm onto her finger in the blink of a hummingbird’s eye. He finished the gesture with a kiss before helping her down the doorstep. Lydia turned and waved goodbye to Ingrid, her ring glinting in the evening sunlight, as Melvin led her to the carriage.

“My fiancee and I shall see you at the ball tonight, mother!”

“Look forward and don’t trip; that dress was expensive,” parried Ingrid.

Out of the corner of his eye, Melvin caught Lydia sighing into her glove.

The carriage took off toward the palace. Melvin figured he might as well try to cheer up his date. “The ruse worked, didn’t it? She thinks we’re engaged.”

“You could tell her you’ve met her a dozen times and she’d believe it,” Lydia murmured bitterly. “You could convince her you proposed to me over tea at Harold’s. She’d think she was filing her nails in the powder room. She doesn’t care.”

“Well… fine.” Melvin sighed. “So I’m keeping all the suitors at bay by being your ‘man’ for a little while. Explain to me how this gets me away from your mother?”

“The same way you’re getting us to the ball tonight.” Lydia glared coolly at Melvin. “You have a fairy godperson, don’t you?”

Melvin gaped.

“You’re not the only person who reads, you know, plus I hear you talking to her _all the time._ ‘Stella’, right? And that means it’s her fairy bidding to get you to this ball. _This ball_ is where you’ll find your freedom.”

Lydia clasped her hands in her lap and stuck her nose in the air with a perk of self-satisfaction. One eye opened ever so slightly, and she peered out to confirm her suspicion in Melvin’s expression. She wasn’t disappointed. Melvin rubbed his forehead, dumbfounded.

“Well, I--it’s not like I-- _need_ _you_ to--to be at the stupid ball,” Melvin responded eventually.

“Oh, really?”

“Right. I had no trouble getting there _last_ night.”

“Ah, yes, and you had no trouble smashing all those champagne glasses and having a fight with the prince, either.”

Melvin flushed. “You saw me.”

“Saw and recognized.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Ingrid and Lars might be too full of themselves to notice what’s going on around them, but I told you: I play the game.”

“So… what?”

“Come on, Cinders.” For the first time in as long as they’d known one another, Lydia cracked Melvin an almost gentle smile. “I’m gonna get you _in._ You’re going to meet every attendee and learn everything there is to learn about where they’re from and what they do. You’re going to explore every nook and cranny of that ball so thoroughly that no fairy purpose could _ever_ hide from you.”

Melvin’s lip twitched. “Fine. But I have a question.”

“This had better be good.”

“Why did you want to dance with the prince so badly?”

“Excuse me?”

“You stepped on some girl’s foot or whatever. I guess this was a while ago.”

“Oh. That. Obviously I wanted to be queen.”

“And that’s changed.”

 _“Prince Edward_ wants to be left alone.” With a sniff, Lydia crossed her legs. “If I can’t get what I want, I want to be left alone, too.”

 

 

 

The second night of the royal ball was ostensibly no worse than the first, but Melvin had to actually participate this time, so it may as well have been the most horrific day of his life. His arrival was _announced._ He was _“Lord Melvin”._ Gods; he wanted to scream.

Holding Lydia’s hand the whole time was… weirdly okay. She was a strange yet constant anchor to the least heinous of the things he knew. She talked a lot, too, so he didn’t have to. He noticed for the first time how different her voice had sounded in the carriage. This bright and bubbly character she played on the ballroom floor was hiding something, but that _something_ was something she’d confided in him and apparently him alone.

Unfortunately, she didn’t let him linger by the refreshments for hours like he would’ve preferred, but she did allow him a few flutes of champagne, which he sipped slowly while he met the Duke of Anyplace and the Count of Overwhere. It wasn’t so bad. He imagined their excessive mustaches catching fire.

Melvin thanked every god and Stella that he’d spent most of the day practicing ballroom dancing while Ingrid was turned away. He’d rarely ever danced at all, let alone _led_ in a dance. Lydia seemed quietly relieved Melvin knew what he was doing, as well, although the muscle memory would probably dissipate with his clothes by the end of the night.

“You’re doing all right,” she whispered in his ear; not that he’d asked.

“Lydia!” called a gallant voice which Melvin would’ve recognized as that of one Lord Hector, the handsome fellow who tried to propose to Lydia the night before, had he been paying the slightest attention to anything occurring on the other side of the pillar. Hector trotted up behind Melvin and Lydia, along with a couple of his lordly friends, giving the pair pause in their dance. Lydia dropped Melvin’s hands.

“Lord Hector,” she greeted him, dropping into a quick curtsy. “Lovely to see you again tonight.”

“Truly?” He laughed in disbelief. “After the way you _scorned_ me last night? I should think not, milady.”

The bite in his tone and the enmity in his swagger set Melvin on alert. He spun on his heel to cover Lydia behind him, although he was barely taller than her.

“You must be Hector,” he drawled, avoiding the honorific just to watch the man’s jaw twitch with irritation. He stuck out his hand.

Hector ignored it. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Lord Melvin… Har--uh...ka--um...uh--” Melvin fumbled.

“Melvin Harakauna,” Lydia supplied.

“Melvin for short,” finished Melvin. “Lydia’s mentioned me, I’m sure. Or should I say--” he twined his fingers with hers for effect “--the future Mrs. Harakauna.”

Melvin smirked. Lydia hid her face behind him as she rolled her eyes. Hector pressed the gloved fingers of one hand to his forehead.

“No, I can’t say she _has_ mentioned you.”

“Well, I can say she hasn’t mentioned _you,_ Victor.”

_“Hector.”_

“Anyway, we were just dancing; excuse us--”

“You are _not_ excused.” Hector pushed Melvin away with some gentility in an attempt to reach Lydia. “Lydia, what you _said_ last night--”

“I--my lord!”

 _“Excuse us.”_ Melvin bared his teeth in a very unlordly fashion and pushed Hector back out of the way. With open hostility, he glared directly into the other man’s eyes. “Although it seems to me we’re not the ones in need of an excuse now.”

“Lydia, you did not _tell_ me you were engaged! How could you _lead me_ so?!”

“Get _back,_ Henry.” Melvin jabbed a finger in his chest.

“I didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship,” explained Lydia, although there was a little crack in her voice that told Melvin she’d seen a Hector-shaped spider crawling up the baseboard of her life and she just panicked.

“You took _advantage_ of our ‘friendship’! You are a dishonest woman. A _snake.”_

_“Hey.”_

Maybe it was all the champagne. Maybe it was the fact that Melvin really liked snakes, including the one who lived in his house with all the maps (her name was Margaret Carta). Maybe he finally felt like he and Lydia were in genuine cahoots together, or maybe he had genuinely come to, for some reason and in some small capacity, _care_ about her. Or maybe it was because he just really wanted a reason to whip out John’s favorite swept-hilt rapier.

The dance floor was so silent and so still you could’ve balanced a single playing card on end in the center right up until Melvin spoke.

_“Draw, jackass.”_

With a macho expression but an obviously trembling hand, Hector drew his own sword--clearly decorative, which made Melvin want to _howl_ with laughter; what was the _point?--_ and crossed it with Melvin’s. Melvin raised one eyebrow slowly for dramatic effect. Hector swallowed.

The decorative sword was on the floor in three swings.

Melvin bopped Hector sternly on the ear before sheathing the rapier. Hector whimpered and stumbled back before falling to the floor.

Lydia was biting her lips together in a valiant attempt not to laugh; Melvin could see that she was truly struggling. As Hector staggered to his feet and slunk away, Melvin offered Lydia his hand, and they left the dance floor together.

Prince Edward found them cackling under the stairs.

Lydia saw him first. She slapped Melvin’s hand to get his attention. Edward was wearing a real suit this time, complete with those stupid shoulder brush things Melvin hated; evidently, he was attending the ball tonight rather than attending to it. Melvin sniffed, but he stood respectfully. He had a character to play.

“Your highness. Please excuse us; we needed to cool our heads.”

Edward smiled. “That’s okay. I have a question though.”

“Um… yes?” said Melvin, wary.

“Why’d you end it so _fast?”_

Lydia scrunched her nose. “What?”

Melvin scratched his head. “Yeah… what?”

“The fight!” hummed the prince. “It was over in seconds! It was almost the most interesting thing to happen in this palace in a whole decade!”

“What happened a decade ago?” mused Lydia.

“I heard about that thing with the elephants,” guessed Melvin.

Edward stepped closer, his eyes shining. “Listen… it’s not often I remember how fascinating the world can be. You’ve reminded me.”

“You’ve never wanted anything to do with me before,” pointed out Lydia.

“Well…” Edward bit his lip. “I don’t really trust you.”

“Ugh.”

“Can you blame him?” said Melvin. “So… Prince Edward. You know Lydia. I’m Lord Melvin, her fiancee.”

“Um, right. Good to see you.”

“So what do you _want,_ Edward?” sighed Lydia.

“I… don’t know….” Edward looked away, beyond the balcony. He shut his eyes for a second. “I want to stop being responsible for a little while. Oh my gods, I want the courtship to stop! I want all these such-and-suchesses to stop hanging on my arms trying to get a cast copy of my crown. I want….”

Edward trailed off. Something clicked in Melvin’s head. It made sense that the prince had lied the night before--the prince lied about his princeliness, Lydia lied about her whole person, and now, Melvin was lying about being a nobleman, and it was all because each of them… wanted _out._

Melvin swallowed. “Want to take a walk?”

Lydia raised her eyebrows, and Edward smiled, relief in the curve of his shoulders. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

 

 

 

There was a little glass left in the cracks in the garden walkway beneath the balcony. Melvin kicked it away with the toe of his boot so Lydia wouldn’t have to step on any.

“It was kind of you to offer to accompany me outside,” said Edward, a little formal in the night air, possibly nervous in the face of the wide sky. “Thank you.”

“Those guards weren’t gonna let _any_ of us into the gardens without one another,” grumbled Melvin.

“It’s a party, _dear,”_ sighed Lydia; “you’re not _supposed_ to just wander off onto the host’s personal property.”

“Well, what about him? You? You _are_ the host.” Melvin looked pointedly at Edward.

“Um…. To be honest... this party is sort of… mandatory for me.” The prince grimaced.

“Mandatory?”

“My parents are forcing me to pick a bride.”

“Oh, finally.”

_“Lydia!”_

“She’s not wrong.” Edward tilted his head back to squint at the few stars visible in the palace lamplight. “Most of these noblewomen are, you know, perfectly decent… ish… people, sometimes, but I don’t want to _marry_ any of them. They’d be intolerable!”

“Oh, _then_ they’d be intolerable. Ouch!”

“It seems my shoe has landed quite hard on some large and ungainly object in the middle of the path. You ought to have your groundskeepers look into that, your highness.”

“Um, right. So I’m pretty much not allowed to leave or be alone or anything. Since I’m with you two, I guess it’s okay. Even though neither of you is an _obvious_ eligible noble bachelorette.” Edward smiled.

Melvin furrowed his brow. “Weird way to phrase that, but--”

“Your highness!” chirped Lydia, changing the topic. “Have you been to the theatre this season? There’s this _opera buffa_ with the most _gorgeous_ costumes!”

“I don’t really like opera that much. But I love the swordfighting!” They turned down a long path framed by still pools of crystal water. Edward’s hands were clasped behind his back; Melvin watched him fidget as if itching to draw a sword himself.

“There’s no swordfighting in opera,” groused Lydia.

“In plays, there’s swordfighting.”

“That stuff is so choreographed,” snorted Melvin. “It’s contrived! As soon as you know anything about real swordplay, stage fighting is embarrassing to watch.”

Edward spun about and walked backwards so he could face Melvin, grinning the whole time. “When did you learn how to fight? Who taught you?”

“Oh, um… my dad taught me. It was just part of the household my whole life.” Melvin shrugged.

“Be careful not to fall into the water, your highness,” lilted Lydia.

“Would you, um… maybe want to teach me?”

Melvin nearly fell into the water himself when he realized that, yes, he actually would very much like to teach Prince Edward how to swordfight.

“We have a _lot_ of wedding festivities to attend to, _my love,”_ snipped Lydia.

 _Right. Wait--we’re not actually getting married--_ and those words nearly slipped out of Melvin’s lips, before--

BONG.

_Shit._

Melvin grabbed Lydia’s hand and tried to rush back to the palace. In seconds, his disguise would be gone, and he’d be back in his plain work dress. Back to Cinders.

BONG.

“Wait!”

Edward grabbed Melvin’s arm, throwing him off balance. Lydia hastily freed herself from Melvin’s grip and got herself clear of the scene.

BONG.

There wouldn’t be time to get through the palace and out the doors before he changed back--there had to be another way, a way through the gardens--Mel would figure it out--

BONG.

“Melvin! What’s going on?”

BONG.

Melvin tried to push past Edward, but the boy was sturdy as a rock.

BONG.

“Just _move,_ your highness--”

BONG.

“I need to leave--”

BONG.

“My mother--is sick--”

BONG.

Melvin jerked his hip. Edward toppled into the water on the side of the path. Shocked, Melvin toppled into the water on the other side.

BONG.

Lydia gasped, stepped backwards, tripped, and fell. She scraped her chin on the pavement and shrieked.

BONG.

Melvin shot up and abandoned all pretense of dignity as he prepared to run down the path--but there was Lydia, on the ground, and he hesitated; he held out his hand--

BONG.

An orange bow fell to the ground.

Mel covered her mouth to keep herself from screaming in frustration. Lydia stood up and glared at her.

“Weren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on the clock?!”

 _“Get me out of here!”_ Mel hissed.

“There are already guards on the way,” Lydia snapped back.

_“What?!”_

Dripping and heavy, Edward finally stood behind them. He tapped Mel on the shoulder. “You dropped your bow. And your sword.”

Mel whipped around and snatched her effects from his hands. “You-- _you--!”_

“Hi.” Edward smiled a wet smile. “Two disguises in two nights? Hats off.”

Mel gaped.

“Smarter than I look? I get that a lot.”

Three guards from the garden doors hustled to the scene of the submergence and bowed deeply. “Your highness! Lady Lydia! We heard a commotion--is all well?”

Edward cleared his throat into his fist. “Yes, thank you; everything is fine.”

“Wait!” barked Lydia, thrusting out a hand. She grabbed Mel by the collar. “This servant got lost trying to leave after the evening shift. She’s new. Do escort her to the front gates, please.”

“The sword is hers!” added Edward.

Mel tried not to wince. It _was_ a way out. As she left the gardens, she caught a half-smile from Lydia through the blood on her chin and a wink from Edward, still soaking wet in his formalwear.

 

 

 

“Oh, sounds like Lydia just got home, too. I didn’t expect her back earlier than Ingrid and Lars.”

“She was experiencing some cosmetic difficulties.”

“Uh oh. How about Melvin?”

“I don’t know ‘what happened to him’. I don’t know, Stels; I don’t know. I think everything’s a huge mess right now.”

“Solutions aren’t always clear when you start chipping at the problem.”

“Shut up and spoon me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this Lydia is OOC love me or h8 me


	3. Third Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lars and Ingrid both use pretty abusive language in this chapter.

The palace was abuzz before the third and final night of the ball. Everyone was talking about the Viscount--or was he an Earl?--from far out of town--possibly a Baron; no one had heard of him before--Lady Lydia’s secret paramour and husband-to-be, Lord Melvin Harakauna. The one who duelled and humiliated Lord Hector in the middle of the ballroom. Short, handsome, roguish, quiet yet clever. And very, very dead.

Yes, that sleek and stylish carriage of his was found demolished against the rocks in the rapids of the river. Neither of his horses could be located, nor could his body, but the doors were smashed inward at such angles as would prevent anyone from exiting the carriage. The curtains, too, obscured the windows, which were surely in pieces, bloodied and jagged within the cabin. An agitated young woman with purple hair and an officer’s uniform shooed everyone away from the scene, insisting that the young lord’s own men would arrive shortly to clean up the wreckage. Lord Wallace swore he heard her mutter something bitterly about just _how much_ this was going to cost her.

It seemed Lady Lydia had been in the carriage at the time of the accident. Between the sobs and the blubbering, her brother Lars managed to learn that Melvin had pushed her out just before the crash, and she sustained an injury on her face. Luckily for Lydia, her mother, Lord John’s widow, was in possession of a great deal of stylish mourner’s dresses she hadn’t used in months. Anyone at the ball could see she’d loved Melvin so. Though Lydia was no widow, surely she’d mourn a year at least. No man would so much as blink at her for all that time.

Oddly enough, it was Mel, John’s oddball orphan daughter, who insisted her housemate attend the final night of the royal ball despite the recent loss. It wouldn’t do for Lydia to be alone in that massive house. Even more odd was the tiny smile on Lydia’s face when she agreed without argument.

 

 

 

It occurred to Mel that night that she wasn’t _technically_ disguised as a noble in her dress and her tiara. She _was_ a noble. She was disguised as someone in a dress and a tiara.

She was looking for Ed.

Lydia was accepting condolences at a table on the ground floor. She’d gotten what she wanted, at least for now--or so Mel was pretty sure despite that nagging feeling in the depths of her memory, so for all intents, she decided, Lydia had gotten what she wanted. They didn’t need to stick together. On the surface, it didn’t necessarily seem like Lydia had done anything for Mel, but… here she was, looking for a prince who wanted her to teach him how to swordfight, and she thought there might be something in that.

Mel drummed her fingers on the refreshment table as she scanned the ballroom. No champagne tonight; she wanted to be sharp. A spinach tartlet couldn’t hurt, though.

There--ugly red coat, dumb shoulder brush things. He was actually dancing with someone. Good for him. Mel licked spinach from her teeth and marched for the imperial stairs, fistfuls of her emerald green skirts clenched in each hand. She got halfway across the dance floor.

“Pardon me.”

Before she could react, she found her hands taken up by a man’s, her feet aggressively led in the temperate waltz through which she’d tried to charge. She blinked and found his face.

_Hector._

“You look very familiar to me,” he said, half-smiling. “Were you at the ball last night?”

“Uh, no,” lied Mel, not sure whether she should tear away or whether she would attract more attention than she needed at the moment.

“Really? It’s your eyes. You have the most… _intense_ eyes.”

Mel bit back a retort about how many more she had pickling in her basement.

“Well. Since I don’t even know your name, I thought it prudent to introduce myself. Lord Hector. Are you new to society?”

“Not exactly.”

“Really? From what family hail you?”

“I….” Mel swallowed. She felt something unexpected--something she’d avoided even touching for an entire year. She suddenly felt cold and alone and confused in the middle of the ballroom. “My father… John.”

Hector frowned. “I see. You’ve been on your own for a time, then.”

“You could say that.”

“Then I suppose you must be in search of a husband.”

Mel reared back and stepped on Hector’s foot. “What?”

_“Cinders.”_

Lars grabbed Mel’s stiff arm, and the waltzing stopped.

Hector let go of Mel and backed away. “Lord Lars,” he said, acknowledging without warmth. Lars ignored him.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Lars scoffed.

Mel glared at him hard enough she thought she might have to visit the basement for a new pair of eyes later that night. “I’m a _noble,_ aren’t I?” she hissed, the word sour on her tongue.

Lars pulled her further away from Hector, who sniffed and left them to their spat. She tried to twist his arm, but he grabbed her by both wrists.

“You’re dancing with other men like you think you can charm them? Like you think they’d ever want to marry you?” Lars laughed derisively. “Like they would marry soot and dirt?”

Mel rolled her eyes. “Get your hands off me, Lars.”

With a forceful motion, Lars grabbed Mel’s waist and led her back into the dance. Mel ground her teeth. Making a scene suddenly seemed far more worth it.

“You stay with _us_ because there’s nothing out here for you,” Lars continued quietly. “You know these people would never want you if they got to know you.”

“Doesn’t seem much like you want me, either,” pointed out Mel.

“Lars!” called another familiar voice from the edge of the dance floor. “What’s this you’ve found?”

“Just Mel, Mother,” replied Lars, trying and failing to twirl Mel to the music.

“Oh.” Ingrid narrowed her eyes. “That’s _just_ what we need.”

Mel finally broke loose from Lars with as much grace as she could muster, even granting him a sardonic curtsy before walking away. But--she _thought_ she was walking away--and she found herself in front of Ingrid instead, her arms crossed, which was not where she meant to be, because Edward was by the balcony now. Lydia raised her face from the table to warn Mel away, but between Lydia’s black veil and Mel’s tunnel vision, Mel didn’t get the message.

 _“Why,_ exactly, do you shut me in all the time?” demanded Mel.

“Dear John wouldn’t want his poor, socially deficient Mel to be damaged by the ills of the outside world,” replied Ingrid, toying idly with her silver necklace.

“Father taught me ten ways to kill you without you ever knowing you were dead.”

“But he didn’t teach you how to speak.”

Mel sucked in her cheeks. She _hated_ this woman.

“Everything you need is in that house, Mel,” continued Ingrid, “and everything you _want._ All of your favorite books, your maps, your swords, your snake. Why do you want to get out so badly?”

“Everything I despise is in that house, too,” growled Mel.

“So childish. So _emotional!_ You see, this is why you _need_ us.”

“Enough, Mother.”

Mel turned to see Lydia rubbing her temples. When no highborn guests were close enough to see, Lydia flipped the veil up from her face. The scrape on her chin was worse than Mel thought, and though it was healing, it wasn’t healing prettily. With a tired glare, Lydia looked from Ingrid to Mel.

“You didn’t see John’s will before we moved in. We lied about it, okay? It said two things about the house.” Lydia stuck out one finger. “One: it’s only Mother’s as long as you’re living in it.” Lydia stuck out another finger. “Two: it’s only Mother’s as long as it’s ‘kept up to your specifications.’”

Mel shook her head slowly. “I…. You make _me_ do the housework… because…?”

Ingrid grasped her daughter by the shoulder. _“Lydia.”_

“Ow!”

Lars joined the glaring. “She’s lying!”

“I am _not!_ And _you_ were going to marry her so we could keep her in the stupid house-- _ow!”_

“Excuse me?!” Mel choked. _“Marry Lars?!”_

“It’s not like I’d especially enjoy it, either,” grumbled Lars.

“You are on thin ice, little miss bereaved,” hissed Ingrid, digging her nails deep into Lydia’s shoulder. Lydia whimpered, and something in that noise impacted Mel, buffeting her like sleet.

“When I get out of there, I’m--I’m going to _sell_ the house, and--no, I’m going to convert it to an orphanage--” Mel quickly realized how difficult it was to discuss orphanages while sounding threatening “--and kick you out onto the _street,_ Ingrid! You’ll never see a _penny_ of my father’s inheritance!”

Ingrid snorted. “Right. Because _you’ll_ end up on the same street first.”

“Nothing I haven’t trained for.”

It was at this precise moment Lars decided to take matters into his own hands. Jumping on his toes in as lordly a fashion as one could manage, he fluttered his hand high in the air and called, “GUARDS! GUARDS!”

Mel blanched.

Four royal guards, including one incredibly tall blond knight with no helmet, stormed as unobtrusively around the edges of the ballroom floor as they could to reach Lydia’s table. They bowed quickly.

“My lord!”

“This _uncouth_ woman just threatened the three of us with violence!” Lars stuck a haughty finger out at Mel, who swatted it away. He gasped and wrung his hand as if struck. “You see?!”

“May I respectfully ask how many champagnes have been consumed within your party this evening, sir and madams?” asked the tall knight.

“We don’t drink,” snapped Ingrid.

“She might,” suggested Lars. “Her father was a sailor. She’s from _low blood.”_

That should _not_ have stung Mel as much as it did, but it _did,_ and Margaret was suddenly wound around her throat, and before she realized she’d done it, her glove was off, Lars’ face jerked, and a _slap_ rang in the air.

The knight grabbed her wrist. “My lady, we cannot be too tolerant, as we had some unexpected tensions end in excessive violence last night. Any escalated incidents and we will have you removed.”

“You should have her removed _now,”_ said Lars in a voice meant to sound like a growl but actualized like a whine.

“You should,” commented Ingrid, her cool exterior slowly thinning. “She’s wearing a glamer.”

The knight cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, my lady?”

“As in, that dress isn’t real. It’s fairy magic.”

He cleared his throat again. One of his underlings leaned slightly over to another with a pained expression on her face.

“Ah… magic, my lady…?”

“Yes. Ma-gic. The shiny sparkles what go poof.” Ingrid wiggled the fingers of her free hand. “That dress is magic. She’s faking it so she can be at this ball uninvited. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Everything about her is a sham!” cried Lars. “Look at her! She’s still covered in all this stupid dust. Can’t even clean herself properly. She’s an animal.”

He smeared his hand down her face, and she made for him with her other fist, but the knight grabbed her arm and held her wrists together behind her back. “I’m afraid that is enough. I won’t warn you again.”

Ingrid was smirking beside Lydia, whose eyes were still downcast. “So you don’t believe in magic, Sir Dance-a-lot.”

“I do not frequently dance.”

“Let me clear some things up for you.” She released Lydia’s shoulder; the younger woman fell forward slightly, slightly but obviously bleeding above her dress. Ingrid snapped her fingers. Instantly, Mel’s ballgown and tiara vanished, leaving her standing in the middle of the palace in her plain house dress and bright orange bow.

The knight behind her staggered back. “W-witchcraft!”

Lars pushed Mel backwards after him before she could regain her center, and the two toppled together into a heap on the floor. “Is _this_ the outfit of someone who was _lawfully_ invited to this ball?" yelled Lars. "Is _this_ dirty rat someone who should be here? She’s mad! She should never leave the house!”

Mel scrambled to her feet as the knight flailed about on his armored back like a turtle, calling for the aid of his fellow guards. They seemed occupied. Great. She took the opportunity to throw a punch at Lars’ stupid face.

 _“AUGH!_ Violence!”

“Your mother taught you to start problems.” Mel wiped her hand on her dress. “My father taught me how to solve them.”

Lars snatched the bow from her head, waved it as high as he could like a pennant, and shouted to anyone who would listen, _“And is this hideous, tasteless, childish piece of refuse something that a lady would wear?! She’s trash! She’s lower than your servants! They at least have dignity! They have taste! They have class! Run this girl out! She doesn’t belong here!”_

“Hey.”

Lars turned.

Prince Edward punched him.

“One black eye just isn’t as fashionable as two.”

Mel gaped at Edward over Lars’ crouched and moaning body. “Hey; I was looking for you.”

“You did a pretty good job finding me, but I have some pointers.”

Grinning nervously, Mel glanced over her shoulder at Ingrid, who was probably almost done figuring out what to do about her son, the guards, and the prince all at once. “I’d love to hear them. Why don’t we take a walk?”

“A brisk one,” agreed Edward.

Arm in arm, they made for the ground floor stairs. Lydia, her veil back in place, lifted up her head and sent them off with a tiny wave and an obscured smile. She was alone, unbothered--the way she’d wanted from the beginning. Feeling light for the first time in quite a while, Mel waved back. And the thing she’d forgotten quite suddenly hit her again.

_“I’m perfectly aware of how much you hate it here, and how much you hate Mother and Lars. You’re not the only one.”_

Mel stopped for a second and stared at the ground before marching to the table and grabbing Lydia’s hand, Edward in tow. They fled to the gardens together.

 

 

 

All three were sweating bullets by the time they hit the night air. Lydia removed her veil again, letting the breeze dry her face. Mel and Edward unlinked their arms, but Lydia refused to let go of her viselike grip on Mel’s hand. She didn’t say anything.

They wandered a little more slowly to an adequately-lit courtyard adorned with hanging ferns and cozy benches. Mel saw a little pack stashed underneath the bench with the most well-loved cushion. Edward, his hands clasped behind his back, smiled out at the moon.

“So…. Lady Lydia! Good evening.” Edward bobbed into a quick bow before turning to Mel. “And… I’m actually not sure I know your name.”

Mel grinned. “Mel. I’m just Mel.”

Edward grinned back. He stuck out his hand. “Ed, then. I’m just Ed.”

They shook hands.

“I saw you dancing earlier,” commented Mel, glad she’d gotten where she was going but not entirely sure what to do now that she was here. “You really opened up to this prince thing, huh.”

“Well… someone taught me I can wear a mask now and then. But I guess it was harder than I thought.” Ed sighed.

“You didn’t even come see me,” huffed Lydia.

“Um, I mean, I know your fiancee isn’t really dead.”

“But what will everyone _think?!”_

A gentle and tidy throat cleared itself behind them. “Excuse me, your highness, my ladies; I have a message from the captain of the guard.”

Mel turned around. _Well, it’s not a sweetheart neckline._

Lydia’s eyes widened. Her hand rose absently to cover the blemish on her chin.

Edward cleared his throat. “Uh, go ahead, corporal.”

Stella smiled sweetly. “A woman in the ballroom has been arrested on suspicion of malevolent witchcraft for assaulting and humiliating Sir Galahad.”

“Oh, excellent! On both counts.”

Mel smirked. Lydia continued staring.

“So… Ed.” Suppressing a laugh, Mel raised her eyebrows at Edward. “On the topic of assaulting and humiliating. What _happened_ back there with Lars?”

“I, uh, asserted myself?”

“Uh huh.”

“Personal progress isn’t unidirectional,” pointed out Stella. Mel turned to regard her fondly.

“You look amazing with your hair up like that, you know.”

Stella frowned. “You never want to hear my fairy wisdom.”

“You’re the fairy,” breathed Lydia.

“You’re a _fairy?”_ wondered Ed.

“None of these people mattered to you anymore,” mused Mel. “You could punch whomever you wanted. There’s a pack and a dirk under the bench--you were going to run away, weren’t you?”

Ed looked back at her and licked his lips nervously. “Um… well… maybe.”

Mel shook her head. “Ed… that’s… that’s really cool.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I was gonna stay in that house and hide for the rest of my life no matter what happened. You’re braver than I am.”

“I--I don’t know about that.”

“You didn’t hear the second part yet. You’re also stupider than I am.”

Ed laughed softly. “Okay, I’ll take it.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing.” Mel smiled. “You can’t last outside these walls alone. You need a partner.”

“I don’t think I can last inside these walls alone, either.”

Mel crossed her arms and grinned. “Maybe we can make a deal.”

Ed grinned back. “I’ll get you out of your house if you get the suitresses out of mine?”

“And I’ll be your partner. If you can be mine.”

“Well.” Ed reached into his jacket and fiddled around. “It’s a good thing you came to see me today, because I was going to chicken out even if I did find you.”

Lydia squealed. _“Oh my gosh, let me see it, let me see it!”_

From his inside pocket, Ed produced a ring which, to Mel’s relief, was ignobly tasteful; its woven pattern reminded Mel of the way Margaret Carta liked to sleep in the sun. She nodded in approval and let him slip the ring onto her finger. “Yeah, let’s get married.”

“We can plot runaway schemes on our honeymoon.”

“Maybe I could be included,” muttered Lydia, not terribly concerned with whether anyone heard (although Mel did hear).

“Oh, Ed. For accountability, you should probably meet my girlfriend, Stella.” Mel gestured for Stella to stand beside her. “She’s a fairy, but I’m the only person who can see her wings.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Stella,” said Ed with a quick bow, offering his hand. Stella declined it.

“Sorry; I can’t touch anything.”

“Really, you’re lucky you can see her at all,” explained Mel.

“So… you’re okay with me marrying your girlfriend?” asked Ed.

“Oh, yes,” confirmed Stella. “Fairies have a long history of nontraditional relationships anyway--”

“It’s not a real relationship,” grumbled Mel.

“--and we grew up together. I’ve been her fairy my whole life. I won’t leave her unless she doesn’t want me anymore.”

Stella smiled the way she did, her whole face from her high brow to her angelic cheeks lighting up, radiating love from her quiet eyes, and Mel stroked Stella’s perfect freckles with her thumb, pressed their foreheads and then their noses together, and hummed with the deepest contentment she knew.

“I thought you couldn’t touch anything,” said Lydia.

“Only me,” murmured Mel.

Lydia sighed.

“And… you’re okay with marrying someone who loves someone else?” Stella asked Ed.

“Love isn’t one of my top subjects,” said Ed. “Maybe I’ll feel it someday. In the meantime, I don’t see a reason to be bitter about it.”

“Just try not to fall in love with your wife; she’s gay,” commented Lydia.

 _“You_ were trying to marry me, too,” pointed out Ed with a laugh.

“I wouldn’t want you falling in love with me, either.”

“So, Ed,” said Mel, shaking out her hair and adjusting her bow. “If I’m moving into the palace, I’ll need space for a few things. Maps. Books. Swords. We’ll need a sparring room so I can teach you how to fight, of course. Oh, and then there’s the matter of one fifteen-foot, one-hundred-and-fifty pound python; she likes the rafters….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I HOPE IT'S EVERYTHING YOU DREAMED ABOUT!


End file.
